Several Arrows Later
by lovelyinherbones
Summary: A simple apology can change your life...early Season 2: MD. Semi-permanent hiatus.
1. When

Title: Several Arrows Later

Author: LaLaLovely47 a.k.a. Rachel

Disclaimer: Seriously? Do I _look_ like Shonda? I don't own anything except the words.

Setting: I'm not sure in which episode it took place (obviously it was early Season 2), but this is after Derek gives Meredith the "She was my family...11 Christmases, 11 birthdays, 11 Thanksgivings, etc." speech...I'm sorry I can't give you anything more specific, but this is my alternate universe take on things.

A/N: This is Derek's POV (for now) and in the 2nd person...usually, I write in the 3rd person, never in the 1st, but for the past few months or so, I've been on a 2nd kick...anyways, you'll be able to tell when POV's switch.

7/19/06: Part 2 will be up in a day or so.

--

Recommended Soundtrack: My Sundown by Jimmy Eat World

--

Part 1

When

--

She walks out of the operating room behind you, her steps wary and anxious. You scrub out silently and tensely, however still riding the waves from the high of your successful surgery.

She glances at you. You glance at her. You say nothing. She, however...

"I'm sorry," she says, her lips curling into a regretful frown, "You know. I'm sorry for...for not thinking of it that way. I know how you feel...you know, with my mother. I know it's hardly the same thing, but I understand what that's like. To loose someone like that. Grow apart, or be separated or whatever. So I'm sorry."

The thick metal edge of the sink outside of the OR presses into your palms as you lean into it, contemplating her hurried and sincere apology. You know it's just that, sincere that is, because you can see the desperation in her irises, expressing her true need for your forgiveness.

You were never mad. Just frustrated and confused, and you needed something to lash out on. And unluckily for you, she was the first thing you saw, and she had somehow been packing the guilt on over the past few days, so you tore her apart.

You just look at her, your eyebrows knitting together in guilt and the slightest bit of confusion. Her hair is hidden under a scrub cap, but the tiniest strand of hair flutters down over her eyebrow from under its blue linen constraint.

You search her face for something else, an excuse to leave her behind. Something that could tell you that love isn't enough, that you have a reason. But you find nothing. No hatred, no resentment, no selfishness, no immaturity, no bitterness. There's nothing there except compassion and ardor.

She looks at you worriedly. Impatiently, almost. The tears are forming around her eyelashes, because she thinks you're angry with her, holding some sort of twisted, overreacting grudge against her - she doesn't know that's impossible.

The salty, damaged droplets are materializing around the green irises without ever falling because she's hurt. She's hurt and she's confused and she's guilty and she's jaded, but you can't help but think she's the purest, most innocent thing you've ever seen.

"I'm gonna go," she mumbles, before turning and trying to hurriedly escape into the mass of the hospital, but you gently grasp her elbow, halting her movements.

"Meredith," you say, your voice low and empathetic.

Even though you could count on one hand the number of moments where you had wanted so badly to just fall at her feet and beg, grovel, and bribe her to forgive you for what you had done - the moments that passed just as quickly and suddenly as they came, never lasting more than one heartbeat - even though there were very few of them, you still knew how she felt. You were very intimate with that paralyzing, fearful, and soul consuming self-reproach that could rip through you like a fire through the woods.

Oh, yes, you were very familiar indeed.

She doesn't turn to you after you stop her, she stays facing away from you, and you think it's for the best. If you were looking into her eyes at that moment, well...you're not sure what you could stop yourself from doing.

You step closer to her, so that you aren't touching, but you are near enough that the fabric from the back of her shirt and the front of yours intermingle to produce a warm friction and soft rustling that courses throughout your body, from your fingertips that are barely grazing her skin to the tips of your sneaker-clad toes.

You've never seen her cry before, or truly be upset over anything, and you don't exactly want today to be _that_ first. So you know you need to tell her the truth, let her breathe for the first time in the past minute.

"I wasn't mad at you," you say quietly into her ear as she turns her head slightly towards your voice, your breath disturbing a few hairs around the base of her neck that are still trapped underneath her scrub cap.

You can visibly see her ease, her shoulders drooping from their strained position, relaxed. She sighs and you think she close her eyes, but you're not sure.

Your nose meets the crook of her neck as you lean your against her, relishing in this closeness, even if the silence around you is a fallacy. But this is normal for you. Whenever you're with her, the rest of the world seems to fall away, leaving only you two standing there, savoring the moment of just being together.

She sighs again, leaning into you, too, ever so slightly letting a little stress and tiredness ebb away from her.

"Derek..." she begins, turning around to face you, the shadow tears gone, replaced with extreme relief.

"It's ok," you insist, your fingers having a mind of their own and running down the length of her forearms, to find her delicate hands at the end. You lightly grasp her hands, more of a phantom touch than anything, and surprisingly she doesn't pull away.

"I'm not mad anymore," she admits, her voice slightly teasing, her face sheepish and smirking that lopsided grin that she reserves for only you. You smile in return at her, not quite being able to help yourself.

"That's good," you reply, nodding slightly. She can't stop a small laugh from escaping her happy lips.

"Yeah," she mumbles as she nods as well, looking down to the monotonous floor tile, blushing.

"Yeah," you repeat, feeling a little bit of your old self seeping in.

You feel _good_ again, content even. You haven't been a very happy camper as of late, and you're quickly starting to feel alright.

She looks coyly up at you from under sooty eyelashes as you cradle her cheek in your right hand, before slowly running your fingers through her hair, removing the scrub cap along with it.

She smiles and pulls her hair around, letting it loose from its restraining hair tie, and it's completely slung over her right shoulder.

Suddenly, the nearness of her body, the intoxicating scent of her lotion and of her perfume, the way her hair is full and falling around one side of her face, sends you throttling back into memory of the night it all fell apart.

When you remember that - fixing her coat as your wife comes strutting over in all her fur-coat and red hair glory, the only feeling you can remember is horror. Regret, definitely.

Now, looking at her standing with you, looking at you as though you are the only other person on the face of the earth, you know.

You know.

--

You meet her for drinks after work - goodbye drinks, perhaps. You walk into the noisy bar and immediately spot her sitting at the bar, nursing a beer, politely chatting with the bartender.

She's dressed in a pair of khaki's and a crimson colored turtleneck sweater, her hair pulled back into a ponytail, her heels clicking lightly against the bar stool as she absentmindedly swings her legs softly.

You sigh as you sit next to her, facing sideways and she looking at an interesting condensation ring on the mahogany bar.

"You're staying with her, aren't you?" she says, and you can't quite identify the emotion on her face or in her voice. Sadness? Grief? Remorse?

You're not quite sure how to answer her. You know she deserves more than you've given her, but you deserve more too. You deserve a chance, a try at making things work. You deserve to know if you could possibly be happy by staying with her, by taking a gamble on love.

"She's my life," you say simply, four words explaining everything you're feeling now, the need to be with her and the need to move on.

She smiles and nods nostalgically and understandingly, knowing that it wasn't really anyone's fault but her own. It was true, there were definitely things he should have done things differently, but it really was her own actions that brought them to this point in time.

"Goodbye, Derek," she says calmly as she gets up to leave, her jacket draped over her arm as she rests a hand on his shoulder one last time before she would head back to her home.

"Goodbye, Addison."

--


	2. Secrets

A/N: To be honest with you, this was going to be a one-parter, but I just love it too much to let it go down. So please, please, please R&R (any and all...criticism is welcome)...no reviews no updates - because why would I update if no one is reading? And, I'm rather unsatisfied with this chapter, so I DEFINITELY need your thoughts. Please!

Recommended Soundtrack: "This Side" by Nickel Creek - when you see the solid line that goes all the way across the page, switch to "What Do I Have To Do To Prove My Love To You" by Marva Whitney

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Part 2

Secrets

Walking through the doors of Seattle Grace hospital was a different experience for you the next morning. As of late, it has sort of been a condemnation for you - the fear that something could happen inside the walls was almost greater than your desire to be there.

But as you walk into the pale, monotonous lobby, you feel _good_ again.

You see her sitting on a loveseat in the back of the large waiting area, leaned over with her forehead cradled in her left hand, talking on her cell phone, her hair waving back and forth slightly when she nods her head in that idiosyncratic way. She's dressed in long jeans and a plain charcoal gray t-shirt, but you can't stop yourself from thinking she's the most beautiful thing you've ever seen.

If you hadn't heard the familiar, gentle roughness of her voice, you never would have noticed her, because she is almost completely hidden from view. She hangs up the phone just as you approached her, your smile fading as soon as you see the worn look etched on her features.

"What's wrong?" you say, your eyebrows knitting together in worry as you stand over her, your hands buried deep in your jacket pockets.

"Nothing," she says quickly, however, you know her better than that (or at least, you like to think you do), and you raise a suspicious eyebrow at her, "It was just the nursing home. My mother was asking for me yesterday."

"Ahh," you say as you sit next to her, "That's good, right?"

"Not really. She was asking that someone call Ms. Myer and have her drop me off at the hospital after school." You understand, however you don't recognize the name, and you shoot her a confused look at which she continues, "Ms. Myer was my kindergarten teacher.

"I see," you say, nodding, while she leans over and places her head back in her hands, and if it hadn't been for her even breathing, you would have sworn that she was crying. _'Phantom tears,'_ you remember from yesterday. You know how much this is tearing her up inside, regardless of how much her mother may have deserted her when she was young.

You reach over and place a comforting hand on her back, near the base of her neck, which prompts a weary sigh from her.

"It's gonna be ok," you say, not knowing what else to do. No words and no actions can help ease the agony of slowly and painfully losing a parent to the horrible disease.

"No," she says sadly as she gathers her things, "No, it's not." She stands up and pauses as you rise to stand next to her. You sadly extract your hands from your pockets. Just in case. "But thanks for saying that."

You simply nod - the emotional taxation showing on her face too poignantly for you to do anything else, beside nod understandingly and run a comforting hand down her arm.

She smiles - the sweet, dimpled smile that she reserves only for you - telling you she's got it together for now.

The relief is actually surprising as you make your way towards the elevators and silently climb into the empty metal contraption.

You're not this self-less. You're not the type of person who would sacrifice yourself for somebody else - you don't go out of your way to make sure she's ok, or she's taken care of. But ever since you met her...you can't imagine anything else being the foremost concern in your reality.

You look at her, and you understand why she's changed you so much. She's just...her.

"You ok?" you say, and she smiles and nods.

"You know you're making it really hard for me to hate you," she says with a small smirk. You know she's only avoiding your question. She's really not ok. You can see it etched in the tired lines of her voice, the way her shoulders slump dejectedly in the slightest. So you play along, and give her an escape.

"What? I thought you said you weren't mad anymore."

"I'm not," she says, her head leaning to the side in that very _Meredith_ fashion, "I'm still angry you never told me about your wife. Ex-wife. Whatever," she throws in, focusing her stare on the changing, lit board above the doors that informs you when your position has switched floors.

"So you're not mad, you're angry."

"Yes. You see, I'm not mad at you. I'm angry at you, there's a difference, and it would be a lot easier if I could hate you. But I definitely do not. Hate you."

"That's good news," you say, noticing your time together is quickly dwindling away. You're already at the second floor...only four more left.

"What you did was wrong, and I did something wrong, too, so technically it balances out. Even if what you did was worse and I apologized. I can forgive you and still be angry at you." ...3...

"Right," you say, your face a mask of confusion and adoration.

...4...

"You don't understand a word I just said."

"Do you?" you ask incredulously, shaking your head admiringly.

"Not really. But I have a feeling that if I did, it would clear some things up for me."

"Hmm," you say, the noise not quite a word and not quite a grunt, and apparently she takes that as a sign of agreement or understanding.

...5...

"Good," she says, done with that portion of the conversation, and pauses before saying, "I'm not going out with you."

"Did I ask?" you say, feigning exasperation. She's the affirmative action sort, isn't she?

"Well, weren't you about to?"

"Yes."

"No."

...6. Damn.

"I'll see you at 7, then?" you say as you exit the elevator and (unwillingly) begin to go the opposite direction.

"No, you won't see me at 7." You open your mouth to suggest other times, but she cuts you off first, "Or at 8, or at 9."

"10, then." Her only answer is a smirk and a shake of her head as you part ways.

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So far, it had been a mediocre day. Obviously, it had started out bad for you, with the disappointed call from the head nurse at the nursing home (who gave _her_ the right to be disappointed in _you_, anyways?), but just his presence had brightened your day up a little bit.

He was the kind of person who would make you feel like you were the only person on the face of the earth who deserved his attention, and that he enjoyed giving it to you. Even so, his cockiness can often be (charmingly) exasperating, and you would just as soon avoid him rather than have to be in any enclosed spaces where manners could be lost and clothes could be shed with him.

You're happily remembering the (almost) easy conversation you had shared with him this morning as you climb slowly up a staircase from the lobby to the fourth floor, figuring it would give you some decent (and much-needed) exercise.

However, the (next-to) last person you would want to see during that trip down memory lane, starts heading down the stairs towards you just as you round a landing.

"Don't you have somewhere to be?" you say, your eyes narrowing, however contradicting the small smirk playing on your lips. You shake your head lightly as he turns and starts heading up the monstrous journey with you, which at present time, seems like 47 trillion steps. So says the burning in your thighs.

"You know, I have a thing for staircases now," he says, and you reward him with an eye-roll, "And elevators. And cars, too. I like general means of transportation...too bad we don't have any escalators."

"I'm still angry," you say, and you can't help but hope (pray) that he knows you're joking, "And this is _still_ unprofessional, no matter how long it's been going on and how many people know."

"Here we go again."

"I'm drawing another line." At this he snorts and shakes his head, and you give him a playful glare that says, _'You're really annoying and stupid and cocky and I love it.'_

"Yeah, look where that got us last time," he says quietly, and this actually stops you to stare at him and his audacity.

"Shut up."

"What is it with you and telling me to shut up?" he questions, giving you a look similar to _'What is your problem?'_ while shaking his head (which is quite too cute), "It's really uncalled for."

"You're uncalled for!" you say shrilly - it's the only thing you can come up with as you continue your trek up the Monsters (which is the name you've given the stairs, since they seem to _really_ hate you).

"Oh, so we're 5 years old now. Next thing you're going to tell me I'm not allowed in the sandbox anymore."

"This isn't helping you."

"It's not hurting, either."

"How are you so incredibly sure of yourself? You're arrogant, cocky...

"...charming, irresistible..." _'Oh god,'_ you think, as the entryway with a large, red "4" comes closer and closer, _'Only ten more steps...please don't come too soon...'_

"...egotistical, and completely and utterly infuriating."

"You left out cunning and moderately good looking."

"Shut up now."

"You're such a nice person." As you pull open the door to the fourth floor, the blessed release of cool air slams into you, disregarding your annoyance and the tortured pain you'll feel as soon as he leaves begins to sweep in. He turns around to begin his original descent, but you have to have the last word.

"As nice as I can be when I'm around you," you call after him and all he gives a wave over his shoulder.

"See you at 10!"

--

"Dr. Grey?" your patient inquires, her voice small and questioning as you scribble notes on her chart.

'_Mrs. Gellar is suffering from back pain, tremors, and an incessant need to annoy her doctors.'_

You erase the last comment (begrudgingly).

"Yes, Mrs. Gellar," you respond with a (fake, tired, and aggravated) smile.

"Could we possibly..." she stutters, "Maybe, I don't know...not tell my husband? About - about the operation?" Your eyebrows shoot up at this, causing a panicked look to flicker across Mrs. Gellar's face, and she suddenly feels a need to explain, "You know, he's very over-protective. He would worry too much. Make a big deal about things."

"He should worry," you say in your, _'I'm a doctor, you should listen to me,'_ voice, "You're having a major operation."

"I know," she says, "I know that, I just don't want him to tear himself up about it. Just tell him I'm getting a spinal tap, or something..."

"A spinal tap doesn't give you a four-inch incision," you say, cutting her off, "And they don't take seven hours. I think your husband will figure out that you didn't go in for a spinal tap."

"Well, no, he won't," she said guiltily, wringing her hands together.

"He won't?" you state rather than ask, "You don't think the scar and recovery time and rehabilitation won't be a dead giveaway?"

"You know, he's not the sharpest tool in the shed," she says sweetly, indicating that she found it rather endearing, while you find it rather ridiculous.

"So you don't want Dr. Shepherd and I to tell your husband about your very serious, possibly fatal surgery."

"Exactly!" she exclaims, in a very, _'I grew up in a loud family,'_ fashion, "I knew you weren't that thick!"

--

You smile at her as she scrubs in, removing all of her jewelry (none), and cleaning her hands thoroughly with pre-packaged soap.

"So you're ok with not telling Mr. Gellar the truth?" you question, your newfound courtesy getting the better of you.

"I lie everyday," she says matter-of-factly, "Everybody lies here. Why would I not be ok with lying?"

"I don't know," you say slightly defensively, "Are you?" Your only answer is a pointed look in your direction that is telling you just how much she is _not_ ok with lying.

Why would she be ok with lying? You lied to her, and you nearly broke her heart. Her mother has her lie to society, and it's slowly tearing her apart. She doesn't deserve to have to drag that into her work as well.

As you follow her into the bustling OR, you catch her biting, sardonic comment.

"Lying should be a part of the job description."

--


	3. Important

1Hey all...I know you came here looking for a chapter, but I have news.

I'm not exactly sure when I'll be updating this next...I know it's kind of early to be taking a short updating break, but still. I know exactly where this fic is going, but I just need to write it out. So, I'm not exactly taking a break, I just don't know when I'll be updating.

Right now, I want to write until I am at least 3-4 chapters ahead of the posted material, which shouldn't take _too_ long.

So, since I'm disappearing for a bit, I'll give you a few spoilers (or scenes from the show which I am incorporating into the fic). There will be:

- a Meredith/Derek fight

- the dartboard scene from "17 Seconds" will be used, however different.

- a life or death situation

- an old flame returns

- a chapter with a major event in it, however absolutely no dialogue

So, I hope these little bits encourage you to continue reading when I finally update.

Also, I just wanted to say in light of the recent plagiarism problems, the ONLY place I've posted GA fics is either here or on the Grey's Anatomy Fanfiction website, and only under the penname LaLaLovely47. If you see someone somewhere posting my fics on a place that isn't or fanficga.5. PLEASE TELL ME! That isn't me. Seriously, even if I insist it is, it's not. There will even be a reward! So, definitely alert me if you see someone posing as me, please.

Thanks!

Love,

Rachel


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